Britain's Plinth of Darkness.

Byline: Brian Reade 

POURING a bucket of gorilla dung over modern art has become an annual ritual.

Whenever used condoms or stuffed animals go on show, gags like "what else did they find in Tracey Emin's knickers?" spew forth, along with accusations of talentless cretins and emperor's new clothes.

Much of the criticism is justified but some of the work is genius, saying more about us than we dare to admit. Take Antony Gormley's One & Other, running for the next 97 days, allowing 2,400 "ordinary" people to stand on a Trafalgar Square plinth for whatever reason they want.

Some will promote causes or concepts but all are promoting themselves. "A living picture of Britain," Gormley calls it. And, as the tens of thousands of applications testify, he's spoton.

For this is a snapshot of what we have evolved into. A nation of self-promoting, narcissistic exhibitionists. Walking advertising hoardings for our own egos (all in a good cause naturally, as those London Marathon runners dressed as penguins state, while crippling others in their stampede to the TV cameras).

The plinth is hosting the likes of a nurse taking photos of himself, a "town crier" promoting 2for-1 cocktails in his bar, a balloonreleaser, a man with a sign saying "I am not a pigeon" and a 42-year-old from Derby who wanted to "celebrate humanity".

Fifty years ago only Cambridge Footlights actors or drunken Lords would have climbed up there.

Everyone else would have scurried past, covering their kids' eyes in case they caught something.

Today you can apply online to get a slot on the plinth, and watch it all on webcam.

Gormley's platform encapsulates modern Britain. It's nicknamed The People's Plinth (or the Plinth-ess Of All Our Hearts as it will be called if someone dies on it), there's a safety net around it (to stop any blame if there's a compo claim) and it doesn't matter if you're as shallow as the Diana Foun-tain with less to say than a dumb pigeon. You'll still get the gig.

It's Twitter, X Factor, Facebook, Big Brother, Chantelle Houghton, Jack Tweed, Peaches Geldof and everyone from Blue rolled into one. It's an OK! column next to Nelson's Column.

Andy Warhol's fame prophecy realised.

It should be prescribed on the NHS for the millions of celebrity-worshippers who believe that when they die God will show them their best bits then give them a presenter's job on Heaven TV. The prescription reading: "Get on that plinth, get it on YouTube, then get back to being a Kwik-Fit fitter or a teacher."

Nothing excites me more about this work of genius than the scene that awaits whoever is on the plinth at 3am on Saturday. A dozen blondes will pull up their matching "Jodie's Hens On Tour" T-shirts to flash their tattooed knockers, while doner kebabs are hurled at the plinther's feet.

They'll look down on a puking, scrapping mob unleashing a tuneless rendition of "Oo the f***-in 'ell are yeeew?" And as they nervously attempt to ring the police, a flying bottle of Peroni will knock their iPhone out of their hand, and be on eBay before dawn.

Never has art imitated life so perfectly.